


Torpoint Blank

by chewb



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grosse Point Blank (1997) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Human, Crowley needs a therapist- too bad it's Shadwell, Eventual Happy Ending, Good Omens RomCom Event, Goromcom, M/M, Some homophobic language but it comes from Shadwell and what else do you really expect, The author sometimes shamelessly steals from the source material, Violence typical when your hero is a gun-for-hire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22943383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewb/pseuds/chewb
Summary: i'm beyond grateful todiamondot, who in june said "just read this one fanfic" and therefore is entirely responsible (in the best way) for me falling headfirst into this fandom. they also convinced me that i could write a thing, immediately offered to beta for me, and has been the most incredible, tireless cheerleader a person could ask for.additional thanks toKannaOpheliafor britpicking, assuring me that my jokes are indeed funny, and general encouragement!if this fic is fun and coherent, it's thanks to them. if it isn't, it's a hundred percent on me.anyway, enjoy! i'm having a lot of fun with this, and i hope you do, too!i've upped the warnings to include the violence one; i don't know that i would exactly characterize the violence in this fic as "graphic" but it's still there and more than nothing, and i'd rather err on the side of caution. if you're worried, the more violent/explicit violence happens in chapters 3 and 4, and i'll put notes on those chapters to specify what to skip.thanks for reading! ♥
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 81
Kudos: 86
Collections: Good Omens Rom Com Event





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i'm beyond grateful to [diamondot](https://diamondot.tumblr.com/), who in june said "just read this one fanfic" and therefore is entirely responsible (in the best way) for me falling headfirst into this fandom. they also convinced me that i could write a thing, immediately offered to beta for me, and has been the most incredible, tireless cheerleader a person could ask for.
> 
> additional thanks to [KannaOphelia](https://kanna-ophelia.tumblr.com/) for britpicking, assuring me that my jokes are indeed funny, and general encouragement!
> 
> if this fic is fun and coherent, it's thanks to them. if it isn't, it's a hundred percent on me.
> 
> anyway, enjoy! i'm having a lot of fun with this, and i hope you do, too!
> 
> i've upped the warnings to include the violence one; i don't know that i would exactly characterize the violence in this fic as "graphic" but it's still there and more than nothing, and i'd rather err on the side of caution. if you're worried, the more violent/explicit violence happens in chapters 3 and 4, and i'll put notes on those chapters to specify what to skip.
> 
> thanks for reading! ♥

Anthony J. Crowley was beginning to feel like perhaps killing people for money was not all it was cracked up to be. It was solid, stable work, and it paid well enough. He got to travel, which he liked, but it was becoming harder and harder to feel like a part of the world when his very presence was destructive.

He thought all this while climbing the stairs to a rented room, carrying a rifle in a guitar case. Not his most prescient timing. 

Most blokes in his line of work were passionate about it, but for him, especially lately, it was a job and he was just going through the motions. What was that Marie Kondo line? It didn’t spark joy. The worst of it was he couldn’t really talk about this with people; partially just because he didn’t really talk to many people. He could go days without talking to anyone but his cat or his plants. The only humans he really talked to were his secretary, Tracy, and his therapist, Dr. Shadwell. He wouldn’t want to abuse the power dynamics inherent in talking about this with Tracy, and Shadwell really just wasn’t much of a therapist. 

It was no good talking about this with the operatives he worked with (and sometimes, against) professionally, either. They were pretty universally power-mad, imagining themselves to be righteous vigilantes. That wasn’t how Crowley felt at all. He just found himself here one day: making a decent living but feeling isolated, going home to his empty flat and wondering if maybe, just maybe, there might be more to life than this.

Crowley sighed, put in his earbuds, and assembled the rifle. He was set up at a window, with a clear view of the hotel entrance where he expected the mark to emerge. No sign of the target yet. He started to slow down his breathing. In, out. In, out. A good marksman shoots between breaths. Still no target. Crowley sighed, and dialed Tracy on his iPhone. 

“Hellooooo, you’ve reached Hell to Pay, how may I direct your call?” came the bedroom voice at the end of the line.

“Tracy, it’s Crowley.” Crowley kept his eye on the rifle scope.

“Anthony, love, I’m glad you’re checking in. Is the job finished? I’ve got some mail here for you.” she said over the phone.

“Waiting for a visual,” he answered. “What’s the mail?”

“Multitasking, for shame,” she tsked, but continued. “It’s mostly rubbish, but there’s a diamond in the rough here. Can I read it to you?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“It’s— very wordy, but I think you’re invited to your school reunion. Let me skip to the good bits. ‘We’re delighted to welcome back all St Beryl’s class of 1995 leavers for your 25 year school reunion!’”

“What? No, throw that away.” 

“Why? Oh, Anthony, it might be fun! Didn’t you make friends you’d like to reconnect with? And you’ve been depressed, don’t think I can’t tell. I bet some reconnecting would be good for you, dear. What about that boy you’ve told me about, Azure something?” (There went not talking to Tracy about his job, he supposed. She could be too intuitive for her own good, really.)

“Aziraphale,” Crowley corrected absently. “Look, hold on a sec,” he said, sighting the target.

Before he could fire, a sports car swung up to the hotel entrance, and a man in a grey cashmere suit jumped out, gun in each hand. The target started to run, the unmistakable shape of Gabriel (that complete prat) running after him.

“What the Hell, Trace, Gabriel’s here!” Crowley yelled, picking up the rifle and moving to the next window, then the next, waiting for a clear line of sight. He shot, and the target collapsed. He saw Gabriel glance up at the building he was in before dropping his guns on the target, jumping in his car, and flying off.

On the phone, Crowley said “OK, I got them, but look into why the Hell there were two contracts on this guy, would you? I gotta go, it looks like Gabriel’s calling me. And throw that invitation away.”

“I’m going to hold onto it, just in case.”

“Tracy, don’t think I won’t fire you.”

“Psh, nonsense, dear. There’s no way you could function without me.”

Crowley sighed and clicked off the call.

* * *

“Crowley?” came Gabriel’s smooth American accent over the phone.

“That’s right,” said Crowley carefully. The rifle was disassembled and back in its guitar case, and Crowley was headed down the stairs towards his Bentley.

“What’ve you been up to lately, buddy?”

“Oh, you know, taking a vacation. Thought some sun might be good for me.”

“Oh, sure. So where are you, then?” 

Crowley had made it to the Bentley now, and he could see Gabriel’s sports car in his rearview mirror. “The Caribbean.”

“That sounds really nice! You know, I should check that out some time.” Gabriel was gaining on him.

“You really should, some relaxing would do you good,” Crowley agreed. He had made it to an empty playground, and he threw the car into neutral, yanked up the brake, and poured himself out of the car. Gabriel was doing the same, until they were staring warily at each other from a few feet away. Both of them had their hands up in a defensive posture as they circled each other slowly. Finally, Crowley put out a hand.

Gabriel stared at it like it was a dead fish for a moment, but then shook it. Crowley swore he could hear him mutter “ew” under his breath. Crowley shook his head and adjusted his sunglasses on his face.

“Caribbean looks a lot like London, huh?” asked Gabriel.

“Guess so,” said Crowley, taking a step back to lean against the Bentley.

“Listen, Crowley, I’ve been thinking,” Gabriel started.

“Real challenge for you?” Crowley’s eyebrows made a bid for the solar system.

“Listen, you ever think there’s a better way to do our jobs?”

“What, like one where you don’t try and fill a contract I’m already on?”

“Something like that. Look, I don’t know why we don’t work together. I’ve got this plan I’ve been working on, and it’s a great plan. Why do we work hard individually filling contracts when instead, we could have them go through a single channel, and a CEO of sorts could distribute them? It would mean no more miscommunications.” He was smiling, but his purple eyes were hard.

“And let me guess, you’d be that CEO?” asked Crowley.

“Well, who else would be better suited for it? I’m going to call it the Horsemen. ‘Cause we’re bringing in the Apocalypse, get it?” His smile grew ever wider.

“Horsemen?” 

“Oh, horsepeople, whatever. Don’t be so PC. Just think about it, OK?” asked Gabriel.

“Sure, sure,” agreed Crowley. “I’ll see you later, then.” He watched, still leaning against his car, as Gabriel backed towards his flashy sports car, eyes still on Crowley. Finally, Gabriel ducked into his car and sped away. Crowley gave a little wiggle of his fingers as he went, waiting until Gabriel was out of sight before sliding into the Bentley.

“Horsepeople,” muttered Crowley. “Wanker.” He headed home. 

* * *

Ventilation shafts really were not designed for fully grown adult humans, Crowley had decided. The mark was a … diplomat, or mafia boss, or something. He should probably get better at reading the dossiers. Whoever the mark was, he was asleep in a hotel room, lying on his back, mouth open, snoring softly. And Crowley was splayed out in the vent above him, peering down through the slats, slowly unspooling a wire down to the room below.

Once the wire was about a foot above the dictator cum businessperson cum Very Important Future Corpse, Crowley uncapped a little vial. It hissed and smoked menacingly, and Crowley winced in sympathy. He checked that his latex gloves were in place, and had no nicks or holes. Slowly he began to pour the vial’s uncomfortably purple substance down the wire.

Just as the liquid made its final journey from the wire to the open mouth of the target, the target shifted in his sleep, sneezed, and leaned his head to the side. It landed on his cheek, hissing and burning. He woke up with a start, grasping his cheek.

“What? WHAT?” the man started to yell.

“Fuck,” said Crowley, and pulled out his gun and shot the man.

* * *

Crowley slunk into the Hell to Pay offices the next morning. He didn’t like slinking; he was an ambler, a stroller, a hands in the pockets of his impossibly tight denims, no cares, too cool kind of a bloke. He didn’t care for lurking, either, but that was a necessary tenet of his job, so he could make do with that. The slinking, though. He wasn’t a fan.

Tracy was sat behind her desk looking over some paperwork, but when she saw the door open, she stood up immediately, hands on hips.

“Now, Trace, I know what you’re going to say,” Crowley started, hands up defensively in front of him.

She marched up to him, and it didn’t matter that he was a foot taller than her, she glared at him as though he was a child. He hung his head, cowed.

“What the Hell, Crowley?” she fired out.

“I know, Trace, I know.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Oh no, I think it’s Madame Tracy for you right now, young man. ‘Tracy’ is for people who don’t make my job, and theirs, infinitely harder!”

“Tracy—” he started, but at her stern look he corrected, “Madame Tracy…”

“Ye-ess?” she asked.

“It was all going according to plan! It was! It would have looked like a heart attack, I swear. But then the bastard shifted in his sleep, and I had to think fast!”

“Well next time, think faster,” she scolded. “We’re both in big trouble now, that MP was supposed to die of natural causes!”

“MP! Right, that’s what he was,” Crowley nodded. “Anyway, he did; a bullet naturally found its way into his skull.”

Madame Tracy was not amused. “Anyway, you can fix this. There’s a new contract, and you’re going to do it gratis, as penance.” She produced a dossier. “I, however, will still be taking my cut, since only one of the people in this room needs to beg for forgiveness right now.”

“Unforgivable, that’s me,” mumbled Crowley, but he took the dossier from her. He looked at it. “Cornwall?” he asked.

She smiled a little. “That’s right, dear. So you can go to your school reunion after all. I already called them to confirm your attendance, and I made you a reservation at—” she paused to look at her phone, “Cambridge House. You leave tomorrow. Your reservations are through the weekend, but there’s a good cancellation policy. You know, in case you get lucky.” She winked at him.

“But I—” he started.

“No buts. You’re going.” She said firmly.

“Yeah, alright,” he said, nodding a little. He paused, then before he could overthink it and stop himself, he added, quietly, “I— I don’t know how much longer I can do this, Trace.” 

It was the first time he had said it out loud, and it made it real, somehow. He could leave this life, maybe. Do something else, something that might make him feel a little less hollow and grimy.

She softened immediately. “I know, dear. I’ve been watching you for a while, and I know your heart isn’t in the work anymore. But this one is non-negotiable. After this, we can talk, alright? I’ve got an idea for an excellent retirement package for your invaluable secretary.”

Crowley’s lips quirked up in a little smile in spite of himself. “Okay. Call Dr. Shadwell, will you? Tell him I’m on my way.” And he swung out the door.

Tracy smiled fondly and went back to her desk.

* * *

Crowley had been seeing Dr. Shadwell for almost a year. It was the longest he’d seen any therapist, most of them having run screaming, sometimes literally, after a few weeks or months. He wasn’t sure why Shadwell had stuck around. Shadwell wasn’t— good, particularly. Crowley wasn’t even convinced he had any sort of license. Nevertheless, he listened to Crowley for an hour or so a week. Shadwell berated him sometimes, harassed him often, but he didn’t seem repulsed by Crowley’s job or actively fearful of him. He did ask Crowley about his nipples sometimes though, which was odd.

Crowley sprawled in an armchair in Dr. Shadwell’s office. Shadwell sat behind his desk, glaring. This wasn’t unusual; Crowley sometimes wondered if Shadwell had other looks than glares. If so, Crowley had yet to catalogue them.

“Anyway,” Crowley was saying, “Lately— I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel the same anymore. When I started out, I got a thrill from every extralegal thing I did. Every kill.” He shifted uncomfortably, adjusted his sprawl to take up a maximum of space. “These days I feel like I’m just going through the motions.”

Shadwell leered at Crowley over his desk. “Look, you big baby, did you ever think you might be feeling guilty?”

“Guilty?” Crowley asked. “We-eeell, no, I don’t think so. Why should I feel guilty?”

“Why should he feel guilty, he asks!” Shadwell shouted (he was  _ very _ good at shouting).

“It’s just— if I show up at your door, it means you did something to get me there. Nobody gets a contract on their life for being nice.”

Shadwell stood up abruptly, leaning imposingly on his desk. Crowley jumped just a little before resuming his slouch. Embarrassing, a professional killer being startled by an older man with two days of stubble wearing a moth-eaten greatcoat indoors.

“Ye need a vacation! A break from the day-to-day. Visit friends.” Shadwell shouted.

“Friends?” asked Crowley.

“Friends!” Shadwell confirmed, still at a volume easily two ticks above “indoor voice”. “What about that nancy boy you’re always going on about?”

Crowley winced. “Don’t — don’t call him that. Aziraphale.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, yeh girly boy! Killer or not, ye don’t scare me! Not with a walk like that!”

“That’s just— hurtful is what that is,” Crowley grumbled.

“Ye should go see your little boyfriend!” Shadwell concluded defiantly.

“I— I was invited to my school reunion this weekend,” Crowley admitted reluctantly. “It’s possible he’d be there, I guess.”

“There ye go then! Go to your reunion. Try not killing anyone for a few days. Now then, away with ye, I’ve got things to do!” and with that, Shadwell shooed Crowley out of his office, Crowley glaring beneath his sunglasses the whole way.

* * *

His weekend bag was in the boot, Crowley’s sunglasses were perched on his nose, and “Someone to Love” was blasting from the Bentley’s speakers. It had been 50 miles in painfully slow traffic, but Crowley was finally able to escape from the clutches of the hellish M25. What absolute monster had designed such a thing?

Four hours to go. Four hours to what he hoped would be his last job. Four hours to Torpoint, and maybe to Aziraphale. To home, if he believed in that sort of thing. To whatever this weekend would bring.

* * *

Several cars back, a nondescript brown sedan followed along. It contained two men: one, a tall and chalky pale white man, the other, a shorter black man. Neither looked particularly friendly. 

Hastur, pale and thin, was driving. From the passenger seat, Ligur was trying to change the radio station without Hastur noticing, but to no avail.

“Who’re we following again?” Hastur asked.

Ligur pulled up some loose papers from at his feet. “Anthony J. Crowley. 6’1”. Twelve and a half stone. Ginger.”

“Eugh,” Hastur interjected.

“Agreed.” said Ligur. “Bit of a flash bastard, just look at his car. Job is undisclosed but we know he’s a hired gun. Gabriel wouldn’t have directed us his way otherwise. It’s almost guaranteed we can catch him at something before the weekend’s out.”

“Good,” Hastur said. “The less time we have to spend in bloody Cornwall, the better.”

And they drove ever closer to Torpoint.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I just want to sing praises for [diamondot](https://diamondot.tumblr.com) and [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kannaophelia). I am so grateful to you both!

As Crowley crossed into Torpoint, he lost the radio station he’d been listening to after his Queen CD started skipping from exhaustion. He began scanning stations until he found something without static. Classical; that would do just fine.

After a few minutes the sonata ended and the radio host said, “We have to take a break, but stay with us. We’ll be continuing our classical exploration today because as you all know, I abhor bebop.”

Crowley’s eyes widened. What tremendous dumb luck. He thought he remembered where the local radio station was…he could check into his inn afterward.

The prissy voice[1] continued, “I’ll be taking your calls later; we’ve got an exciting weekend coming up here in Torpoint, it’s the St. Beryl’s school reunion. Will I be seeing any of my year mates there? We’ll be honoring the years ending in 0 and 5.”

Crowley had made it to the town’s tiny radio station, and he slammed on the brakes, parking diagonally across two spaces just for good measure. He stared at the radio station’s picture window from behind the safety of the Bentley’s windscreen, then proceeded to beat his head against the steering wheel again and again and again. 

Through the window, nattering on, oversized headphones tamping down dandelion fluff hair, was none other than Crowley’s first love: the long suffering— and unfortunately named— Aziraphale Fell. 

Crowley had wanted to see Aziraphale; it had been all he could think about on the drive from London to Torpoint. Beyond that, he could conceivably be said to be “fixated” on reuniting with him. Did Aziraphale still count as the “one who got away” if Crowley had been the one to run? Crowley would ask Shadwell about it if his interactions with Shadwell were anything but miserable. 

At exactly that moment, Aziraphale looked up from the booth, his white-blond hair positively haloing his face. It wasn’t even fair for him to look that angelic. Aziraphale’s bright eyes widened. On the radio, Crowley heard him say, “With that, my dears, I’ll return you to the program.” Aziraphale took the headphones off. He kept staring at Crowley. His eyes turned hard, and he made a “you better come over here right now” gesture through the window.

Now it was Crowley’s turn for his eyes to go wide. Still in the car, he pointed to himself wordlessly, a question on his face. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and made the gesture again.

Crowley sighed, and got out of the car. By the time he entered the radio station, Aziraphale was waiting for him, hands clasped tightly in front of his body.

“Crowley!” He said, fondness in his voice and on his face.

“That’s me, angel,” Crowley said hesitantly.

“So you’re not dead, then?” He still had that calm, pleased look on his face.

“N—n—noooo,” Crowley started.

“Oh, good. So glad to hear it,” Aziraphale said, smiling tightly. “Just one question then, my dear.”

Crowley’s eyebrows went up. “My-ergggghyeah?” he managed.

“Where. The HELL. Have you. Been. For the last TWENTY FIVE YEARS?” Aziraphale’s voice started icily quiet, but escalated until he was just about shouting, glaring furiously at Crowley.

* * *

They’d gotten together in sixth form. Aziraphale was a quiet teenager from a large religious family, and while he had siblings with names like “Uriel” and “Sandalphon”, Aziraphale maintained that he had drawn the short straw; “Azira _phale_ Fell? I mean really.” 

Aziraphale’s family had been overbearing, full of rules and restrictions, and he’d never fit in. Crowley, meanwhile, amidst a pair of largely absent parents and no siblings, had been left to mostly fend for himself. They’d had nothing in common, or so Crowley thought, but they found each other anyway. 

It was the mid 90s, and while being queer was becoming more socially acceptable in London and Manchester and other hubs, queer couples, especially in small Cornish towns, were almost unheard of.

They’d started studying together when it became apparent that Crowley was in danger of not graduating because of a Literature class. Crowley blamed his eyes; they were light-sensitive and letters always seemed to swim on the page for him. If he’d been in the sort of family that worried, or followed up at all, he might have been diagnosed with dyslexia; as it was, it was assumed that he just wasn’t trying hard enough. Aziraphale, though, could see him struggle. He saw something there; some promise that the teachers, and definitely Crowley’s parents, didn’t look for.

And that’s how it started: Crowley and Aziraphale took to meeting after school and on weekends in Aziraphale’s too-big house. As Crowley got to know him he found that this plush, quiet boy was also scathingly funny, and just as much of a misfit as he was.

They kissed for the first time at that house, too. Aziraphale reading their assignment out loud, Crowley snuggled on the bed against him. The fact that Aziraphale had never flinched at his touch gave Crowley hope: no truly heterosexual teenage boy would be OK with that, right? 

It was Aziraphale who made the first move. He finished his sentence, closed the book with finality, and pulled Crowley’s sunglasses from his face.

“Angel, what?” Crowley asked, startled.

“If it’s alright with you, my dear, I think I should like to kiss you,” Aziraphale said firmly.

“Y— yeah, angel, anything,” Crowley managed, before Aziraphale leaned in and so sweetly pressed his lips to Crowley’s.

But that was a long time ago. Before he fell.

* * *

Crowley wanted to explain. But how do you explain “I ran away because I was scared of these demons inside me, scared that I might ruin you, scared I could hurt the one thing I really cared about in this world?”

He opened his mouth, closed it again. Opened, closed. Aziraphale had his arms crossed defensively in front of his belly, eyebrows raised, and a cute little wrinkle in his forehead Crowley just wanted to kiss or smooth away. Not now though; Crowley was definitely still in the doghouse.

“Look, angel,” Crowley started.

“Yes?” Aziraphale prompted.

“I can’t make excuses, not really. I don’t really want to talk about where I’ve been, what I’ve been up to. But I can apologize. And angel, I am so, so sorry. I’m sorry I left the way I did, with no warning. I felt like I had to get away, but it wasn’t fair to you. And you were never the thing I was running from, I swear.”

Aziraphale’s gaze softened infinitesimally. He made a “go on” gesture.

“I’m just wondering, angel, Aziraphale— I know I’ve always gone too fast for you, and I know, I _know_ I’m unforgivable and I’m not asking you to forgive me, but— do you think we can start from here? We’ve grown a lot, I think. It might be nice to— I dunno, get to know each other as adults. And, er, see what happens from there?”

Aziraphale hesitated, his mouth forming a little moue. “Oh, I suppose. But don’t think I’ve forgotten how you’ve dodged my questions today, and don’t think I won’t keep asking, either.”

Crowley smiled in spite of himself, and leaned over to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale let the faintest ghost of a smile cross his face before batting Crowley away. “Not so fast, you sly serpent.”

* * *

Before Crowley left, they exchanged numbers. Crowley had honestly not expected Aziraphale to have a mobile phone at all, but Aziraphale said “Well, needs must,” and pulled out his flip phone. Crowley had cackled at that, and didn’t stop giggling until Aziraphale threatened not to answer when Crowley rang later. After several mea culpas of questionable sincerity, they agreed that they’d be in touch later that evening, so Crowley left the station and checked into his hotel.

It was a perfectly fine place to lay his head; no view of the water, but it was only a five or six minute walk away. He dropped his bags and the unopened dossier, gave himself a once-over in the mirror, and then headed back out. He’d go see the school again, then visit his old house. His parents were long gone, but it might be nice to see where he grew up once more anyway. Maybe take a nap, then go see Aziraphale. Keeping busy, that’s what he needed.

He arrived at the school in no time. It hadn’t changed much— it was just as imposing and strange as he remembered. It was a Friday, so school was in session. Crowley thought he could just make out the sounds of classes. It had been an odd thing, their school. The nuns in charge followed St Beryl, who proselytized talking above all else, but it meant that the student body was often quiet, unable to get a word in edgewise.

He hadn’t quite decided whether or not to peek inside when he heard a voice.

“It isn’t the demon Crowley?” 

Crowley turned. “Sister Mary Loquacious! I really hoped I’d outgrown that nickname since I’ve been gone. You haven’t aged a day!” he broke into a grin, moving towards her. They did an awkward hug-or-handshake shuffle, finally kind of bumping hands and patting each others’ backs. 

Crowley was taller than her, now. He’d had a bit of a growth spurt after joining the service, he supposed. 

Meanwhile, as he was taking in her appearance, from the tip of her pointy habit to the bottom of her sensible shoes, she was chattering on, as expected. Crowley tuned back in. “So what happened to you? When you vanished? Your pale shadow was crushed, you know,” she finished, before finally taking a breath. The lung capacity of these nuns! Crowley had forgotten.

Crowley’s face fell. “Yeah, I’m not surprised. I saw him already, actually. He seems okay.”

“What have you been up to, young Mr Crowley?” she asked. “You look like a mortician.”

He glanced down at himself. Black on black on black, sunglasses, just a hint of red in his jacket lining and the back of his collar. She wasn’t wrong.

“Just Crowley is fine, Sister, really. And I’m not so young anymore. I’m forty three!” he laughed, but didn’t answer her question.

She smiled at him all the same, then glanced at her watch. “Well, oh dear, look at the time, I’d best get back to it. Maybe I’ll see you at the reunion tomorrow!” and she was off.

Crowley stared after her for a moment, then headed back for his car. A few cars away, a beige sedan revved to life. He thought he’d seen that sedan on the drive from London, now that he thought about it. As he drove off, he saw the sedan slide into place behind him. Spooks, probably. He’d have to remember to ask Tracy later. But that could wait; he wanted to go visit his childhood home first.

* * *

He got out of the car, dumbfounded. The house he grew up in wasn’t there anymore. Standing in its place was a Costcutter. A Costcutter! He got out of the car and dialed Dr Shadwell.

“Shadwell! Shadwell, are you there? I need you to pick up. It’s where I grew up…it’s not there anymore. It’s a fucking Costcutter! I guess it’s true what they say… you really can’t go home again. But— I guess you can shop there.” 

Phone still in hand, Crowley went into the convenience shop. He wandered around for a while, placing things in his memory; alcohol in the living room, crisps in his childhood bedroom, and so on. He finally arrived at the front of the shop with a packet of crisps in hand to check out.

The bloke working the counter was a punky black kid with eyes ringed in liner. He had two afro puffs that looked distinctly like bunny ears. Crowley had to admit he admired the aesthetic; the black clothes, obviously, but even the bunny ears were a choice he could imagine making, if only he had the right hair texture. The kid’s name tag read "Eric".

As Crowley pocketed his change, a red-headed woman stalked out of the shop. She stared at Crowley as she walked out, mouth quirked in a smile. Crowley glanced at the kid again; he was doing some restocking now, music blasting on his headphones. Crowley looked at the door where the woman had exited; he could see a car speeding away. He ran to the back of the store where the woman had been, and yep, that was definitely a bomb in the microwave. He sprinted back to the front of the shop, shouted at Eric to run, and was on the sidewalk before he realized Eric wasn’t with him. He rolled his eyes dramatically[2], ran back inside, grabbed Eric by his collar, and bolted out again, Eric in tow.

They were in the car park, Eric swatting away at Crowley’s hands, somewhere between furious and very confused, when the Costcutter exploded.

* * *

“Are you okay?” Crowley asked Eric. The explosion tossed them into the road, and Eric looked pretty scraped up. Crowley wriggled his limbs to make sure he hadn’t broken anything; he hadn’t.

“No, I’m not okay!” Eric managed. His eyes were very wide. “I’m shocked, confused, and sad! And I need to find a new job!” 

Eric stumbled to his feet and patted himself down. His phone screen was cracked but he didn’t seem too badly injured. After a few minutes, he calmed down and called the police, and Crowley made himself scarce. From the Bentley he left a message with Tracy, asking her to investigate who else might be in town, then took three deep breaths and rang Aziraphale.

Aziraphale picked up on the second ring. “Hello dear,” he said, most of the old fondness back in his voice.

“I’m making good on my promise. Can I take you to dinner?”

“Oh, I suppose. But steel yourself, dear. I _will_ be asking you about what you’ve been up to all this time.”

“OK, angel, sure. Where to?” Crowley asked. 

“There’s a lovely little sushi place. Let’s say seven? Would you be so kind as to pick me up? You remember the old house, yes?”

Crowley did.

* * *

After Crowley’s best, if unconvincing, impression of a nap back at Cambridge House, he headed to Aziraphale’s old home. It was just as he remembered it: an imposing, ivy-covered white monstrosity, columns at the front, surrounded by perfectly manicured lawns that glowed even as it was growing darker outside. Aziraphale was sitting on the front step, book in hand. As Crowley pulled up his eyes crinkled and his face bloomed into a smile.

Crowley was out of Bentley and opening the passenger door for him before his brain had a chance to catch up. Oh well, nothing for it. Aziraphale patted his shoulder warmly and slid inside.

As they started to drive away, Crowley said, “So how is it that you’re back at Eden Manor? You haven’t been here this whole time, have you?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, no. My sister moved back after her husband died; remember Jophiel? She has a lovely little son, Adam. Well, after my flat burned down, I moved back too. It’s nice to be close to the two of them and help out where I can.”

“Wait, angel, hold on a moment. Your flat _burned down?_ Who did you piss off?”

“No one, you snake! It was old wiring, or something. Anyway, never mind that. It’s just up ahead.” He gestured, and Crowley slid the Bentley into a parking space.

* * *

The sushi restaurant was as lovely as Aziraphale had said, though Crowley supposed he would have happily watched windows get washed if he could do it in the warm embrace of Aziraphale’s joy. Aziraphale still made absolutely obscene noises while he ate, and Crowley was riveted. He did his best to eat his meal, but it was hard when he was wishing he could be that sashimi.

“Now, Crowley, I think I’ve been perfectly patient,” Aziraphale said, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

Crowley’s eyes widened behind his sunglasses.

“Please, Crowley, tell me what you’ve been up to these twenty five years. I won’t even ask why you left when you did.” Aziraphale’s face had taken on a bit of a pleading look, and Crowley never could resist that. He sighed.

“I made a deal with the Devil, sold my soul, and now I kill people professionally. It’s not bad work.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Yes, I hear that’s quite a growth market. And where have you been living?”

“London, mostly,” Crowley answered, feeling on surer footing now. “Though I travel quite a bit.”

He glanced behind Aziraphale as a pair of spooks walked past him and into the men’s room. It was the shoes; they had very distinctive shoes.

“I’ll be right back, angel, just want to wash my hands,” he said, and sprang to his feet.

* * *

In the men’s room Crowley positioned himself between the two spooks to relieve himself. 

“So, gentlemen, what brings you to this lovely town?” he asked conversationally.

Ligur glanced at Hastur, uncertainly. “You don’t— talk to people in the toilets, mate.”

“Huh, really?” asked Crowley. “Because it seems to me you and your friend followed me here from London, and then followed me around all day today. Thanks for all your help when the Costcutter exploded, by the way.”

“We— we didn’t—” started Ligur.

“He’s being sarcastic, Ligur!” snapped Hastur. Ligur shut his mouth, chastened.

“Listen, guys,” said Crowley, zipping his trousers. “I’m trying to get back in the good graces of a figurative, but basically literal, angel, who was the love of my life twenty five years ago. I’d really appreciate it if you could just give me a chance. So here’s the deal. I’m going to go back out there, pay the bill, take him home, and then I’ll be back at Cambridge House in about a half hour. I’ll see you there?”

They stared at him blankly as he walked out.

After Crowley was gone, Gabriel extracted himself from one of the cubicles. “That’s him!” he said in a stage whisper, pointing at the door.

“We know,” said Hastur. “We’ve only been following him around.”

“Why haven’t you knocked him off yet, then?” asked Gabriel.

“We can only terminate once we’ve witnessed the subject participate in an illegal act,” said Ligur, in the manner of someone reciting something well-rehearsed. 

“You know he’s a killer, though, guys!” said Gabriel. “Why not just kill him and get it over with?”

“We’re agents, not assassins,” said Hastur. “And he’s coming back!”

Gabriel retreated back into the cubicle. Ligur looked around. “Where is he?” he asked.

Hastur made a shushing noise, but to no avail. Gabriel slid out of the cubicle again. “Very funny,” he grumbled.

* * *

Crowley dropped Aziraphale off back at Eden Manor, even managing to kiss him on the cheek as he helped him out of the car. Aziraphale touched the spot on his cheek, fondly. “You’ll pick me up tomorrow, then?” he asked. “We can go to the reunion together?”

“Absolutely, angel,” Crowley agreed.

Aziraphle started down the path to the house. He paused and turned back. “And you won’t stand me up this time, will you?” he asked. His tone was light, but Crowley could hear the anxiety beneath it. It was saying “you abandoned me once, and it hurt. Please, please don’t leave me again.”

“I’ll be there. I promise.” Crowley said. He watched Aziraphale disappear into the house, then sank back into the car, and wound his way back to his hotel.

* * *

Back at Cambridge House, he sprawled himself out on the bed, pointedly ignoring the dossier where it perched on one of the pillows, and rang Tracy. She picked up after the first ring.

“Oh, Crowley, dear, good. I’m glad you called.” He could hear her shuffling papers.

“Did you find out what’s going on in Torpoint?”

“I did, chicken, and you’re not going to like it. That town is hot! The feds you saw tailing you are Hastur and Ligur, with MI6. They’re looking for a patsy to take a fall. Gabriel fed them you.” 

“Of course he did,” Crowley sighed.

“That’s not all, though. It looks like Carmine Zingiber is after you, too.” 

“Carmine Zingiber; I think she’s the one who blew up the Costcutter. I guess that means Gabriel’s as good as his smarmy word, and got his Horsemen corporation thing going.” 

“Horsemen? Cheek!” Tracy clucked. “But you can get out of there, right? You did the job already?”

Crowley lugged his ragdoll body into a sitting position. The dossier, still unopened, glared at him from where it sat, clearly judging him.

“Not— quite yet,” he confessed.

“Anthony J. Crowley, what have you been waiting for?” she demanded, demandingly. 

“I’ve been busy! I almost got blown up! And— Aziraphale. Just— tomorrow, OK? I promise to look at the dossier tomorrow.” He hung up the phone, and fell back onto the bed, landing half on the dossier.

He glared at the dossier. It stared impassively back. He sighed, tossed it to the floor, and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Aziraphale would take umbrage with that classification. He’d be wrong, though. [ return to text ]  
> 2He was allowed a little drama, wasn’t he? There was a bomb! [ return to text ]


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm grateful to [diamondot](https://diamondot.tumblr.com/)for being the best beta on the planet and [kannaophelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kannaophelia) for stellar britpicking.
> 
> I've added a violence warning to the overall work, and want to mention that this chapter and the next chapter are the ones I specifically want to CW for violence; it's not gory but it's more graphic and explicit than "so and so shot so and so" so I do want that to be clear. If you want to read but skip the violent section, skip the section that starts with "Crowley, as it happened, was at his old locker." You can pick up again at the next section without missing too much.
> 
> OK that's it! Enjoy! ♥

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear, unusual in its lack of overcast weather, but welcomed nevertheless. Crowley permitted himself the tiniest sliver of hope at the sight of the blue sky before tamping it down as ridiculousness.

He dressed quickly and headed into town for a coffee, parking and waving to Hastur and Ligur where they were parked across the street. Ligur waved, but Hastur smacked his hand down.

“Don’t  _ engage _ with him, Ligur!”

“Hastur,” Ligur said, “we can’t kill him until he kills his target, right?”

“Right.” 

“What if we kill his target? Then can we kill him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He wants to kill a good guy, right?”

“Yeah, s’pose.”

“Only bad guys kill good guys. So if we kill a good guy, we’ll be bad guys. Don’t you like being a good guy?”

“Not really. It’s so dull in the car, and I haven’t brushed my teeth in three days! I just want to kill somebody already!”

“You haven’t brushed your teeth in three days?”

Ligur shrugged, breathed out on his hand to sniff it, and winced. Then he looked out his window. “Hastur, isn’t that Gabriel?”

Gabriel was walking into the same coffee shop Crowley had disappeared into. He was holding a poorly concealed gun in a paper bag.

“You don’t trust him, do you?” asked Ligur.

“Gabriel? No chance.” Hastur answered.

“Good,” Ligur nodded. “It would be a funny old world if we went around trusting each other.”

* * *

Gabriel sat down across from Crowley at the coffee shop, holding the paper bag tightly under the table. 

Crowley glanced up from his phone and shifted his lounge to take up slightly more space. “Gabriel.” he said carefully.

“Crowley, listen. I’m sorry about the Costcutter yesterday.” Gabriel was smiling insincerely.

“Nothing to apologize for,” Crowley said, slipping his phone in his pocket and sliding out a small pistol.

“It was a misunderstanding,” Gabriel continued. “I told them to kill you and they didn’t.”

“Hard to get good help these days,” Crowley agreed.

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Crowley. I don’t want to kill you! I want you to work for me— with me. With me.”

“Working with people isn’t exactly in the job description, Gabriel. Being a loner is kind of the point. But if it makes you feel better, this is my last job.”

Gabriel glared at Crowley, his face getting redder and redder. “No! Absolutely not! You’re in the horsemen or you’re not in this business anymore!”

“Fine by me,” said Crowley.

“But we’re not going to let you do your last job. We’re going to do it for you. And then we’ll do another job.” He mimed shooting Crowley with the hand that wasn’t holding a gun under the table.

“Good luck with that,” Crowley said. He stood up in a smooth movement, and sauntered out of the coffee shop, not looking back. Outside, he exhaled shakily.  _ Stupid,  _ he thought to himself. He should know better than to show someone like Gabriel his back, even in a public place. 

He headed back to his inn, still working to steady his breathing. He just had to get through the reunion tonight, then one last job, and he’d be free. 

* * *

After a very restless day, and changing his outfit and redoing his hair no fewer than six times, Crowley was finally ready to leave to pick Aziraphale up for the reunion. He was wearing a smart button down shirt (black), skinny jeans (black), and snakeskin boots (black). His dark red hair had just enough product in it to look like it didn’t have any product in it. His sunglasses were on his nose. He still hadn’t opened the dossier. Tomorrow, he promised himself.

Shaking his head and grabbing his keys, Crowley headed out the door and to Aziraphale’s house. He parked and headed up the walk, holding flowers behind his back. At the front of the house, he paused. Should he just knock? Text Aziraphale? Before he could decide, the front door swung open.

It wasn’t Aziraphale. Not-Aziraphale, a boy of ten or eleven with a mop of curly hair, was staring at him.

“Who’re you?” the boy asked.

Crowley raised his eyebrows over his sunglasses. “The boogeyman. Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Adam. I live here,” Adam said.

“Ohh, yeah, Aziraphale mentioned you.” Crowley realized belatedly.

“Are you dating my uncle Aziraphale then?” Adam asked.

“I’m— could you just tell him I’m here?” 

“Yeah, s’pose.” He wandered off into the house.

Aziraphale emerged, wearing a pale blue button down shirt, a creamy cardigan, and a tartan bow tie. He wouldn’t have looked out of place working a carnival, but somehow the look worked for him. Crowley smiled crookedly, unable to help himself. He pulled his hand out from behind his back, revealing the flowers.

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale beamed, accepting them. His fingers grazed over Crowley’s as he took them, and Crowley felt himself flush. “Let me just go put these in— rubbing alcohol, isn’t that right?”

“That’ll definitely keep them flowering,” Crowley agreed.

Aziraphale bustled off with the flowers, and Crowley glanced around restlessly. Adam stared at him a few moments longer, then ran off.

Aziraphale returned, placing the flowers, now in a vase, on a side table. He held his elbow out for Crowley, who took it, and they walked to the Bentley.

* * *

When they arrived at St Beryl’s, they were greeted by an effervescent young nun who chattered eagerly to them about nothing as she hunted down their name badges. Crowley couldn’t understand how somehow the nuns had gotten even chattier in the twenty five years they’d been gone. When did she breathe? 

She finally found their badges and passed them over, beaming, and moving to talk to the people in the queue behind them.

“Well, that was a thing,” Crowley said as they moved away, feeling a bit staggered.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agreed. “So what shall we do now?”

Crowley paused, considering, then grabbed Aziraphale’s hand. “Alcohol. Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.”

* * *

The two of them leaned against the bar, glasses of wine in hand. 

“Is that— Newton?” Crowley asked, pointing. Across the room stood an awkward looking man in glasses and a sweater vest, waving at them and heading their way. Close behind him was a woman with large black-rimmed glasses wearing a voluminous purple plaid dress. She was holding onto Newt’s elbow with one lacily cuffed hand. 

“Newton!” Crowley laughed when they crossed the room.

“Oh, ah, yes, Crowley, hi.” Newt managed. 

The woman pushed forward.

“Hi there,” she said in an American accent. "Anathema Device. Newt's mine."

She shook their hands, looking at them expectantly.

When it was clear Crowley wasn’t going to say anything (he was just grinning faintly and glancing between Newt and Anathema), Aziraphale said, "Charmed, I'm sure. I'm Aziraphale, and this is Anthony, though everyone calls him Crowley."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Aziraphale? What kind of name is that?"

"Biblical, I'm afraid. I have five siblings, all similarly afflicted."

"Oh, ouch."

"Ouch, indeed." Aziraphale agreed. 

“Really?” asked Crowley before he could stop himself. “You don’t think that’s a little, er, pot, kettle?”

“Why?” asked Anathema.

“We-eell, Aziraphale, Anathema?” prodded Crowley.

She stared at him blankly. “Both our names start with ‘A’? What?”

“Nevermind,” he said quickly.

* * *

The reunion was— fine, Crowley supposed. Somewhat more people trying to talk to him than he really fancied. They spent about an hour making polite (Aziraphale) and terse (Crowley) conversation with people neither of them remembered all that clearly, before Crowley snapped. He stood up abruptly and prowled over to the bar, Aziraphale reluctantly in tow.

“Distract the bartender, angel!” he hissed.

“I, oh, what?” Aziraphale asked, but Crowley had vanished behind the bloke bartending.

“My good sir,” Aziraphale began to say to the bartender, who couldn’t have been over 25.

“My good sir??” mouthed Crowley from behind the man. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows pointedly. Crowley made a ‘carry on’ gesture and leaned down to liberate a few bottles of red.

“Do you have a moment to advise an old chap about the vintages you’re currently offering?” Aziraphale had continued. When he saw that Crowley had his prize he abruptly said, “Well, never mind. I’ve probably had enough already. Carry on then, mind how you go!” and fell into place alongside Crowley.

“Mind how you go?” Crowley asked, passing Aziraphale one of the bottles.

“I’m not  _ good _ at this sort of thing, Crowley!” Aziraphale huffed, and they took the stairs up to the balcony above the gymnasium.

They sat up there for a while, watching the people below sway back and forth to a slow dance, passing a bottle back and forth between them. Aziraphale had his knees drawn up to his chest; Crowley was doing something only tangentially related to “sitting” at the best of times. 

“Are you happy, angel?” Crowley asked him. He was getting introspective, never a good look.

“Is anyone happy, do you think, my dear?” Aziraphale asked. “I have a decent job, family with whom I have a mutually ambivalent relationship, a roof over my head. It feels almost indecent to want more.”

“ _ I _ want you to want more!” Crowley said, leaning in. “If you could do anything, anything at all, what would it be? And you can’t fool me about your family, they barely put up with you. It’s only a relief that mine are dead, really.”

“Oh don’t  _ say _ that, Crowley! But it’s true, my family has never really understood me. But my sister’s all right. And her sweet son, that Adam. He’s a good enough sort.”

Crowley reached his hand out, hesitantly. He overlapped his pinky over Aziraphale’s, slowly, slowly. Leaving enough time and moving gradually enough that Aziraphale could pull away if he wanted to; but it seemed he didn’t.

“If you could do anything, angel, anything in the world. What would it be?” Crowley asked. He watched his angel (and what a thought, that!) over his sunglasses.

“Oh, well.” Aziraphale said. “I think I’d like to restore books. I used to think it would be nice to own a little shop but you know how I am, I’d hate to let any of them go. And I’d like to move away from here, eventually. I’ve lived here my whole life. I want to see someplace else, be someplace else. Brighton, maybe, or the South Downs.”

Crowley listened to him with awe. Aziraphale’s eyes were alight with enthusiasm for his tiny, precious dream. Crowley decided then that if Aziraphale would have him, Crowley would do whatever he could to help this happen for Aziraphale. He’d do this one last job, get out of the game once and for all, and they could retire to the South Downs together. Maybe get a little cottage, grow vegetables.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley squeezed his hand. “Want to get out of here?”

Aziraphale looked up at him again with those bright eyes. “Oh, my dear. I thought you’d never ask. Let me just say a few goodbyes.”

“Sounds good. I’m going to do a quick loop of the halls, find my old locker. I’ll meet you out front?”

Aziraphale nodded, his eyes still on high beams. Crowley couldn’t help but smile a little (stop it! You’re tough! You’re a big bad demon of a professional killer, keep it together!).

* * *

“This is ridiculous, I’m going in there. What if the mark is in there?” Ligur asked Hastur. “He could kill him and we’d never know!” The car was a mess, Ligur needed a pee, and he was tired of sitting. His right hip was asleep, somehow.

Hastur shrugged. “Go ahead then, but don’t think I’ll be coming in there to get you out of whatever mess you get yourself in.”

Ligur opened the car door. Several crisps packets fell to the ground; he ignored them and headed for St Beryl’s.

* * *

The woman standing in front of the check-in table had a too-white, too-straight smile and uncannily red hair. Her eyes were too blue, her stance too upright. She looked like someone had accidentally dialed her up to eleven.

“And who might you be?” asked the cheerful nun sat behind the table.

“Ohh, I’m married to — Scott, here.” she gestured to a name tag on the table. “He’ll be in soon, he’s just parking the car.” She smiled that uncanny smile again.

“Well, enjoy!” said the nun a little uneasily. 

Carmine Zingeber smiled wide. Her smile looked like it could eat the whole world. She went in search of Crowley.

* * *

Crowley, as it happened, was at his old locker. He definitely couldn’t remember a locker combination from twenty five years ago, but he’d always been a dab hand at cracking locker codes. His ear to the lock, amber eyes shut, he didn’t hear the click-click-click of heeled boots until Carmine had him in a choke-hold.

“You!” he gasped out.

“That’s right, you sweet thing, it’s me.” Carmine cooed. 

“Did Gabriel put you up to this? What did I ever do to you?” Crowley choked, twisting so she couldn’t crush his windpipe.

“He sure did, but that’s not all. You remember that ambassador’s dog you killed a few years ago? Your time has come, and that means double the pay for me,” she smiled, tightening her grip.

“I didn’t mean to kill that dog! It was a complete hell-hound anyway, and besides, I’m getting out of the game. Can’t we work this out? You don’t have to do this!” He kept talking, trying to squirm out of her hold. She was stronger than she looked, and while Crowley was all sinewy muscle, she must have had at least two stone on him and it showed. 

He finally managed to wriggle free, flip her over his shoulder, and pin her to the floor. He grabbed something sharp from his jacket pocket and stabbed her desperately. It felt like an eternity before she stopped moving in his arms. He let out a breath of relief and pulled the object free. A pen. Huh.

Ligur appeared from around the corner, gun drawn. “Stop right there,” he hissed. “I’ve been looking for you. We needed to wait until you committed a crime but I knew you couldn’t get through a school reunion without turning to violence!”

“Ugh, what did I ever do to deserve this?” Crowley groaned to himself. He held his hands out in front of him. “Listen, let’s forget this. I don’t want to kill you and I’m sure you don’t want to kill me, so let’s talk about this like adults, okay?”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Crowley. I do want to kill you, very much.” Ligur stepped closer. Crowley sighed. He had blood on his hands, and blood on his suit, and he would never get this stupid stain out. He stepped backwards, feeling for the door behind him. In as fast and fluid a movement as he could (drunk girl walk notwithstanding; he knew what he looked like) he slid through the door and swung it shut on Ligur. It was the boys’ toilets. He slammed into one of the cubicles, crouched on the seat, and waited.

The toilets’ door crashed open and closed again. Ligur started kicking in the cubicle doors, one after another.

“Come out, come out, you snake,” Ligur was whisper-singing. Crowley stayed very still. 

Crowley could hear Ligur’s progression on the cubicle doors, getting closer and closer. He braced himself. Finally Ligur pushed the door of Crowley’s cubicle and Crowley grabbed him by the collar, smashing his head into the toilet bowl. Ligur struggled but Crowley held him there with one hand, wrenching the gun out of his hand with his other. It took what felt like ages but finally Ligur stilled below him. Crowley let go of him, feeling sick. Two people dead today because of him. He had done that. Crowley didn’t even feel like he was kidding himself anymore, he really had lost the taste for this. Retiring to the South Downs with Aziraphale was sounding better and better.

_ One more job _ , he told himself again. He pulled Ligur’s head from the toilet bowl and dragged him back into the hallway.

Standing in the hallway, eyes dark with shock, gaze darting like a rabbit’s from Crowley to Carmine’s body and back— was Aziraphale.

“Angel, I can explain,” Crowley started.

“Explain what? You were joking. Deal with the devil, you said. Killer, you said. They were jokes!” Aziraphale’s voice was getting higher and louder. Crowley reached for his hand, but he yanked it away. “What’s wrong with you? People don’t  _ do _ this. You’re a monster, Crowley. You really are a demon.”

Aziraphale took one last look at Crowley, and shook his head. “I can’t do this, Anthony. Not with you, not any more.” He walked off, shaking, hugging his arms to himself.

Crowley slid down the wall like a puppet with his strings cut. He had to deal with the bodies, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Just— a few minutes. He’d deal with the world again in a few minutes.

* * *

Anathema and Newt found him like that, slumped between the two bodies, head in his hands.

“Did you do this to them?” Newt asked nervously. “Are they— dead?”

“Pretty sure they’re dead,” Crowley mumbled. His gaze was unfocused.

“What happened?” Newt asked. He crouched down in front of Crowley, looking from him to Anathema. “Talk to us.”

Crowley’s sunglasses had been shattered in the scuffle. He wished he had their protection now, though.

“Yeah, trying to kill me.” Crowley managed. “Had to— had to do it. Aziraphale saw me, though. I think it’s over between us. I don’t think he’ll ever look at me the same again.” 

Newt looked at Anathema beseechingly. She took in the scene around her. One broken man, a dead body on either side of him.

“OK. So what do we do about this?” she asked Newt. He looked at her helplessly. 

“Newton!” she snapped. “Where in your school can we dispose of a body? Or, well, two?”

“The— the furnace room, I suppose,” he managed.

“Your school had a furnace room? An unlocked furnace room? This is a very weird place.” Nevertheless, she sprang into action, grabbing two posters from the walls and nudging the two men into rolling the bodies up in them and then dragging them down the stairs.

* * *

Anathema took in the furnace room, which was, as Newt had suggested, unlocked. They’d managed to get the bodies down there, and Newt and Crowley were despondently hoisting them into the furnace.

“Is that an inverted cross on the wall?” she asked.

“Cross of St Peter,” Newt answered, glad of something to explain. “It’s not actually Satanic, but we get that a lot.”

“How do you explain the baby with the horns, though?” she asked, gesturing to a very weird symbol next to the cross.

Newt shrugged. Crowley was still staring dumbly at the furnace.

“Yeah, I don’t think this is a Catholic school at all, guys.”

* * *

Crowley didn’t remember how he got back to his room at the inn. It was all a bit of a blur. He supposed after Newt and Anathema had helped him deal with the bodies it had made sense for him to come back here; there was nothing for him at the reunion if Aziraphale wasn’t there. He’d definitely ruined that, and just when everything was starting to feel easy and nice with him again.

He turned up his music, lay on the bed, and glared at the dossier.

He supposed some time had passed when he heard a knock at the door. He ignored it as best he could, but the knock came again. Sighing, he turned off the music, and dragged his sorry self off the bed. He glanced through the spyhole, then opened the door with some relief. It was Aziraphale.

“I need to know one thing,” Aziraphale began. “Well, I need to know many things, but I’d like to start here.” He met Crowley’s gaze. His eyes were steely.

Crowley nodded. “Go on, then,” he said.

“Were they— trying to kill you?”

“Yeah, angel. Yes! Yes.”

“And not the other way around?”

“No, ‘course not.”

“Was it because of something you— did?”

“Not exactly. It’s something I— do. Professionally.”

“I’m sorry, professionally? You kill people, professionally? How did you— how did you get here?” He crossed his arms protectively in front of himself.

Crowley sighed. He had no idea how he was going to fix this, if he could fix this. “Look, angel. I wanted to tell you.”

“Clearly not enough!” Aziraphale scoffed. 

“The truth is that this is why I left when I did, after sixth form. There’s always been this horrible thing inside me and I was afraid of it. I didn’t want the monster to get you, so I left.”

“When you left. What— happened to you?” Aziraphale asked.

“I joined the military. It seemed I fit a certain— personality profile. A certain, er, moral flexibility. I was loaned out to MI6, and about five years ago, I went into business for myself.”

“Business? So you’re a— you’re a psychopath.”

“No! No, angel! Psychopaths kill for no reason. I kill because it’s my job. And the people I kill, they’re  _ bad _ people. The things these people have done, it’s horrifying.” Crowley took a step towards him as he said it.

Aziraphale stepped back, and Crowley felt it like a blow. “But it’s  _ wrong _ , Crowley. We don’t get to decide who can live or die. You can’t play God!”

“I—” Crowley started to say. He paused. Considered, for a minute. “You’re right.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “I am? I mean, of course I am, but— you agree with me?”

“I do. And— I want to stop, I’ve completely lost the taste for it. I just have to do one more job, and then that’s it. I’ll be done with this forever. We can leave this town, get away from here, be on our own side.” Crowley had his hands out in front of him, placating.

“Crowley— I’m glad for you, I am. But our own side? Listen to yourself. I can’t do this, Crowley. Not with you, not anymore.” Tears streamed down Aziraphale’s face. He backed out of the hotel room and the door clicked shut behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my unending thanks to [diamondot](https://diamondot.tumblr.com) for being the universe’s best beta and to [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kannaophelia) for excellent britpicking, punctuation help, and encouragement. 
> 
> Also, thanks to all of you who waited patiently on a very rude cliffhanger while I stumped myself on how the heck to end this for a whole month, ugh. I blame the pandemic. Anyway, thank you for your patience, and now let’s finish this thing!
> 
> (As for the violent stuff: if you don't want to read it, I'd skip the two sections that begin at "Crowley was still prowling the paintball field" and start again a few paragraphs from the end of the second section for context. I don't think it's gratuitous but I'd rather err on the side of caution!)

Crowley woke up the next morning with a headache and a crick in his neck. He’d fallen asleep in his clothes and his boots, and had woken up in a tangle of sheets on the floor, soaked through with sweat. Wincing, he threw himself in the shower to get as much of yesterday off of him as he could.

After his shower, he called Tracy.

“How’s it going there?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, perfect, my dear. Just putting all the finishing touches on like you asked.” He could hear her moving around the office as she spoke.

“You found the stashes of petrol?” 

“I did. Just decorating the office with it now. Hell To Pay is officially going out of business.”

“Glad to hear it,” Crowley said. “You’ve been great, Tracy. I couldn’t have asked for a better assistant. Now, before you send the office to kingdom come, I want you to do one thing for me. There’s a little something for you on the underside of your desk; I don’t want it to burn, too.”

He heard the rustling as she searched under her desk, then her gasp as she opened the envelope. “Oh, Crowley. Money! And ordered non-sequentially. It’s just what I always wanted. Thank you, dear.” She clicked off the line.

The dossier glared at Crowley. Crowley glared back.

Reluctantly, he tore it open. Inside were a few sheets of paper, and clipped to the front, a photo of a curly-headed eleven year old boy. Adam Young, Aziraphale’s nephew. Crowley stared at the photo, unseeing.

“Fuck,” he said, then ran for the door.

* * *

He drove to Eden Manor as fast as he could (which was quite fast for a car from 1926), ran up the walk, and started knocking furiously on the door.

Aziraphale opened it, looking rumpled. His hair was flat on one side and more fluffy than usual on the other. He had a tiny pair of reading glasses on his nose.

“What in the world do you want, Crowley?” he asked. His voice was hoarse.

“Your nephew! The curly one! Adam! Where is he?” Crowley demanded.

“Mm, paintball, I think. He and his mother left about an hour ago. What’s this about?”

“He’s not safe, angel! I’ll explain it on the way but we’ve got to go!” 

Crowley turned towards the car. Aziraphale stared after him, frozen in place. 

Crowley was halfway to the car when he realized Aziraphale wasn’t behind him. He spun around. “Angel! The car! Please!”

Aziraphale stood stock still, his only movement a raised eyebrow as he watched Crowley.

“Angel, I’m sorry. I apologize. I should have told you the truth about me. Work with me, I’m apologizing here! Yes? Good. Get in the car.” Crowley was getting increasingly frantic.

“If you think there’s any chance I will get in the car without an explanation you are wrong, Crowley,” Aziraphale said steadily. “If you ever valued me in _any_ way you will tell me what this is about right now.”

“There’s a contract on Adam’s life, Aziraphale! We’ve got to save him!” Crowley said, feeling desperate.

“Oh— oh my. Yes, I suppose we had.” Aziraphale followed Crowley towards the car, and they set off.

Once they were in the Bentley, Aziraphale said, “How do you know there’s a contract on his life?”

“Because I got the contract. It’s there, by your feet.” Crowley gestured with one hand.

“This is the ‘last job’ you were referring to?” 

“Ye-esss, but I didn’t know it at the time. Only opened the file this morning,” Crowley admitted.

“And you would have— done it?” Aziraphale asked, picking up the dossier and thumbing through it.

“No, of course not. You can’t kill kids!” Crowley said firmly.

Aziraphale nodded. They drove on.

* * *

They arrived at the paintball field and Crowley started pulling weapons from the boot. “Since when has there been paintball in Torpoint?” he asked Aziraphale as he worked.

“The last 10 years or so, I think,” Aziraphale answered, watching him rummage around. “It’s mostly a management retreat centre but they’re open to children and families on the weekends.”

Crowley passed him a kevlar vest. “Put that on.”

Aziraphale paled. “You can’t possibly—”

“I can and I do. Put it on, angel,” Crowley insisted. Aziraphale pulled off his cardigan and button-down shirt; Crowley tried not to to watch as the swell of his belly and his silvering chest hair peeked briefly out from his vest before they disappeared again behind the kevlar.

“Good,” Crowley said as he finished buttoning his shirt. “Put these in your pockets.” He handed him a few small, round objects. When Aziraphale’s eyes went wide he said, “They’re just flash-bangs, don’t worry. Can you shoot a gun?”

“We-ell, yes, actually,” Aziraphale admitted.

“You can?” Crowley asked, delighted. “Don’t your lot disapprove of guns?”

“What lot is that, exactly?” Aziraphale asked. “Radio DJs? Gay 43-year-olds who still live at home?”

Crowley pursed his lips, waiting. Aziraphale went on, “Well, yes, normally. Unless they’re in the right hands. Then they give weight to a moral argument. I think.”

Crowley’s eyes widened behind his sunglasses. “A moral argument?” he asked.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Crowley handed him a rifle and several magazines. “Twenty shots to each of those, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

They set off for the paintball field.

* * *

Once they arrived, Aziraphale spotted Adam immediately. Unfortunately, Crowley spotted Hastur and Gabriel almost immediately as well. Adam seemed to be having a great time. He was crouched behind a makeshift structure next to a curvy blonde woman who could only be Aziraphale’s sister, Jophiel. As Aziraphale and Crowley made their way towards Adam and Jophiel, Crowley watched Gabriel take aim with a rifle that was definitely not of the airsoft variety. He leapt for Adam, tackling him to the ground. A bullet grazed his shoulder and he cursed, clapping a hand over it. He rolled off the very confused eleven year old, wincing.

“What the _hell?_ ” Adam asked. “What’d’ja do that for?”

“Dunno,” Crowley answered, still holding his bleeding shoulder. “I’m either in love with your uncle or I have a newfound respect for life[3].”

Jophiel was taking this all in silently. At last she spoke. “Were those real bullets? At a paintball field? But who would want to hurt our Adam? Is this about the trial?”

“Oh, the trial! Of course!” Aziraphale said, smacking his forehead with recognition.

“Look, we can figure out the wheres and whys later,” Crowley said. “In the meantime, Jophiel, Aziraphale, you get Adam somewhere safe. I can handle this.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went steely. “Absolutely not. I’m staying with you.”

Crowley sighed. He didn’t have it in him to argue. “Yeah, alright. Jophiel, there’s a shed of some kind over there, see if you can’t get Adam tucked away. Aziraphale and I will cover you.” He readied his rifle, and Aziraphale hesitantly grabbed a flash-bang.

Jophiel nodded, and they started to belly crawl towards the shed. Crowley started firing at Hastur and Gabriel’s last locations across the field. Return volleys began, and Aziraphale lobbed a flash-bang.

There was a huge noise and a burst of light. In the commotion, Crowley lost sight of Jophiel and Adam. Good; if he couldn’t find them neither could Gabriel or Hastur. He and Aziraphale started to pick their way across the field.

* * *

They made it to the other side of the field with no sign of the other men. Crowley liked keeping Aziraphale where he could see and maybe protect him, but it wasn’t ideal. Where had Hastur and Gabriel gone?

After a few minutes, Aziraphale said, “Look, this is ridiculous. It makes no sense for us to stay here together, we’ve got to spread out and find them.”

“Absolutely not, angel! Don’t you watch horror films?” Crowley asked as he scanned the field some more. Aziraphale was right, but that didn’t mean Crowley liked it.

“Oh, dear, look, over there!” Aziraphale pointed suddenly to the left.

Crowley spun around but didn’t see anything. When he turned back around, Aziraphale was gone. _That bastard!_ Crowley thought. He couldn’t help a bit of a smile.

He stalked off to the left.

* * *

Crowley was still prowling the paintball field when he bumped, quite literally, into Hastur. Hastur had his phone out, but he hastily shoved it in a pocket and leveled his gun at Crowley. Crowley already had his gun in hand. They circled each other warily. 

"You killed Ligur, didn't you?" Hastur said. His voice cracked a little. Crowley felt— bad. Bad? Guilty that he'd had to kill him. That was new. 

"He attacked me," Crowley started, a bit helplessly. "I was defending myself."

Hastur sighed, dropping his head and rubbing his temples with his free hand as though he had a headache. Crowley lowered his gun in spite of himself, and took a step closer to Hastur. 

Fast as anything, Hastur snaked his free hand out to squeeze around Crowley's throat. He brought his gun to Crowley's temple and began to tighten his grip. "You. Bastard!" he spat, lifting Crowley up in the air. "He was my best friend! What do you have to say for yourself?" 

"Can't… breathe…" Crowley managed to wheeze through his crushed windpipe. He dangled by his throat, clutching at Hastur's hand. He'd dropped his gun at some point, he guessed. It was getting harder to guess, to think. His eyes started to drift closed. 

Then he thought about Aziraphale. He had abandoned him once before, and he'd be damned to Hell and back if he would do it again. He kicked out, hard, and felt his steel-toed boot connect with Hastur's shin. The man gave a yelp, and dropped Crowley. 

Crowley gasped, gratefully rubbing his bruised throat. He felt blood rushing back into his head. That had definitely been too close. He knelt down to grab his gun when a hand grabbed his ankle. Hastur, one hand still on his shin where Crowley had kicked him, had reached for Crowley in fury and desperation.

"I'll kill you for what you did to him!" he snarled. He let go of Crowley to reach for his gun. Crowley winced, and shot him. Hastur collapsed, and Crowley shut his eyes for a moment, feeling sick. When he opened his eyes, Gabriel was sneering at him, magnum in each hand. 

* * *

"Gabriel, hey!" Crowley said as casually as he could.

"Hi, Crowley!" Gabriel said conversationally. His mouth was doing what seemed to be his best impression of a smile. Crowley didn't like it. It was creepy, and not in a good way. "Why won't you join my company, huh? It's got great benefits!"

"Yeaaaah, well, wish I could, but i'm satisfied with my current benefits package," Crowley replied, stepping closer. He clicked the safety off his gun. If he shot now he might hit Gabriel before he had a chance to fire back, but it was equally likely that Gabriel would fire at the same time he did and they’d both go down. His best bet was to get close enough to Gabriel to disarm him before Gabriel could shoot, and Crowley didn't like his odds.

"We could work together, whatdya say? Work this out like pals and go kill the brat together?" Gabriel was still grinning. Crowley hated every single one of his perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. 

"I've got plenty of friends," Crowley gritted out, stepping closer. 

“Well, no loss, guess I’ll just kill you then,” Gabriel mused, stepping forward casually. “For free! Because I _care_.” His guns were pressed to Crowley’s chest now.

“Mmm, sounds great, really,” Crowley said as coolly as he could. He thrust his hands out to wrap around Gabriel’s outstretched arms, pulling them into his body so the magnums pointed harmlessly to the sky when Gabriel reflexively squeezed the triggers.

“Ugh!” Gabriel yelled, dropping the guns to pin Crowley’s arms behind him. At least he wasn’t choking him; Crowley had had enough of that for a lifetime. Crowley wriggled in his grasp but couldn’t escape. 

Gabriel sneered at him and leaned in closer, keeping him pinned with one hand and reaching for another gun with the other. He held the gun to Crowley’s chin and clicked off the safety. “Shut your fucking mouth and die already!” he yelled.

Crowley fought against his grip but couldn’t move. His eyes were glued to Gabriel. This was it. He’d tried, but there was nothing he could do. He hoped Aziraphale and his family would be okay. Crowley closed his eyes.

Crowley kept his eyes closed. He felt Gabriel’s grip relax on his arms, the gun slide away from his chin. The shot never came. Crowley peeked one eye open. Gabriel was on the ground on his stomach, a sword sticking out of his back. Above him, Aziraphale stood, his eyes alight with righteous fury.

Crowley gasped, looking from Gabriel to Aziraphale and back. “Is that a _sword?_ ” Crowley asked dumbly.

“Er, yes, I— found it. Over there.” Aziraphale gestured off to the side with one hand.

“Angel, you _saved me_.” Crowley couldn’t seem to get his higher functions back online.

“Yes, I suppose I did,” he said, looking at Gabriel’s prone form. “Is he— dead?” He nudged the sword where it protruded from Gabriel’s body with a foot.

Just then Gabriel gasped, twitched, and started to sit up, reaching for his magnum. Crowley shot him twice in the chest. He fell down to the ground again, unmoving.

“He’s definitely dead now,” Crowley answered. “Let’s go find your sister and Adam, hm?”

* * *

Jophiel and Adam weren’t in the shed anymore. Crowley reflected that it had probably been safer that way, but it was inconvenient right now. He was buzzing with adrenaline and wanted to leave this place as soon as possible. 

He and Aziraphale made their way to the main building, Aziraphale still holding the sword.

“You know, I don’t think you need the sword anymore, angel,” Crowley commented as they walked.

“Perhaps true, but I’ve grown rather, mm— attached to it.” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes in something of a pout. That cute little wrinkle appeared between his brows, and it was irresistible. 

“Fine, whatever,” Crowley grumbled, and Aziraphale beamed smugly at him.

Crowley eased open the door of the main building, standing well back from it. A cricket bat swung at them from out of view, followed quickly by Jophiel gasping “Oh, it’s you!” with relief.

“You almost killed us!” Crowley said, more amused than anything else. “Your family’s scrappy, I like that,” he added conversationally.

Jophiel put the bat down. “Is it over?” she asked.

Crowley nodded. “Yes, all dealt with. We should get out of here before the authorities arrive, though.”

They headed back to their vehicles. Aziraphale rode with Crowley again, staying mostly quiet and thoughtful, though he did occasionally yelp in fear in response to some of Crowley’s driving choices.

Once back at Eden Manor, the four of them sat down at the table together. Jophiel wrung her hands, and Crowley couldn’t help but smile because the gesture was so familiar. “So that’s it? Will we be safe until the trial?” she asked.

“I expect so,” Crowley answered, but he wasn’t sure. “Look, I have a flat in London, why don’t you tuck in there until then? Should be safe enough.”

“What about you?” Jophiel asked.

“Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself. Always have,” Crowley answered casually, doing his best not to think about it too hard. He _had_ always figured something out. And money wasn’t exactly an issue.

“He’ll stay here, with me,” Aziraphale said firmly.

Crowley, Adam, and Jophiel all turned to stare at him.

“Angel, what?” Crowley asked stupidly. “You made it clear that you wanted nothing to do with me, and I can’t blame you. I’m a menace.”

“Well, there’s nothing like running someone through with a sword to put things into perspective, I think,” Aziraphale said. “I’m not saying everything is forgotten, mind. And I’m certainly not ready to enter into a romantic relationship with you at this juncture. I think we both need some serious therapy first. Do you have a therapist?”

“W— mm— yeah, but he’s awful,” Crowley admitted.

“Right,” Aziraphale said, clasping his hands together. “Jophiel and Adam will take over your flat, at least until the trial. You’ll stay here with me, we’ll both start therapy, and we’ll see where things go from there. I believe the garden centre is hiring.”

“The garden centre? I don’t need a blessed job!” Crowley argued.

“If you think I’m going to let you sit around each day moping, you’re simply wrong, Anthony,” Aziraphale said, tone brooking no argument. 

Crowley sighed. “Yeah, alright.”

* * *

**6 months later**

It wasn’t all bad, really. He liked working at the plant nursery well enough. Hated the customers, hated that he couldn’t yell at them. Though his supervisor didn’t seem to mind him yelling at the plants, which was a start, at least. But being surrounded by greenery all the time, watching seedlings start from nothing and turn into something, it felt powerful. It was nice to be surrounded by creation rather than destruction all the time.

And each afternoon, he came home to Eden Manor, the place that had been his refuge as a teenager, to the person who had been his harbour in the storm in his most fraught times; both 25 years ago and again so recently.

Per Aziraphale’s edict, they had been diligently attending therapy sessions, both together and apart, and their relationship had bloomed ever so delicately as a result. It felt different, these days; both different than it had when they were in sixth form and from the longing he’d experienced in the years since. He was hopelessly sappy to admit it, but he could see that he’d been holding Aziraphale up on a pedestal before. It was much nicer to simply be present, be with him the person, not him as the representation of Crowley’s wasted youth.

They drove into London for the trial, and were relieved when everything went exactly as they’d hoped. Afterwards, they went out to dinner with Jophiel and Adam. 

“So, what’s next?” Crowley asked Jophiel over dessert.

“Home, I think,” she said. “We’ve had rather enough adventures to last a lifetime. Will you stay in Torpoint with us? The house is certainly big enough.”

Crowley looked uncertainly at Aziraphale. It was one thing to play happy families just the two of them, but their relationship was still relatively new.

“For a bit, I think,” Aziraphale answered for the both of them. “We need a little time to sort out what’s next. Though I did give notice at the radio station.”

“You did?” Crowley asked. It was the first he was hearing of it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale confirmed. “I found a course in book restoration, and I want to be able to throw myself into it. They’ve hired a bright young man named Eric to replace me; I expect his style is quite different than mine, but—” and here he smiled at Crowley, eyes brightening the room, “change can be lovely, can’t it?”

Crowley felt the withered core of himself blossoming in spite of himself. “It can be,” he agreed.

He took Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale squeezed his in return, and pulled him in just a little, leaning up to kiss him in front of Jophiel, Adam, and the whole restaurant.

Adam made a gagging noise. Aziraphale pulled away from Crowley and laughed, ruffling the boy’s hair.

Adam made a show of wincing. Aziraphale just smiled again, and went back to holding Crowley’s hand.

Crowley smiled. There was a lot they didn’t know, but they’d figure it out. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 3Meanwhile, across the field, Hastur was saying “Did he just save the boy?”
> 
> Gabriel said, “He’s either in love with that kid’s uncle or he has a newfound respect for life.” [ return to text ]
> 
> #### End Notes:
> 
> Can't believe I finished a thing! I was really struggling with the ending up until I realized that I didn't _have_ to give them a happy ending directly after the shootout. 6 months later with some working towards a healthy relationship felt much better to me.
> 
> Writing this has shown me that I use the phrase “Crowley sighed” approximately as often as Henry Cavill as the Witcher says “Hmm” so, uh, sorry about that?
> 
> Anyway, thanks for hanging in there and bearing with me while I wrote my first ever real fanfiction (outside of a few Livejournal one-offs in the early aughts thankfully lost to the sands of time). You all are the best, and the comments and encouragement in the GO-Events server and here have completely given me life.
> 
> Thanks a million, friends.


End file.
